"Won't I? that depends; at all events I'd like to look at that letter," he said, stretching out his hand. She put the letter quickly behind her back. "No, you won't see it." "Why not?" "Because I don't trust you." "Very well," he said deliberately, "if you don't let me see the contents of the letter, I'll go straight to the lawyers when they arrive and tell them you stole it." "You would not be such a villain?" she cried in despair. "I don't see why I shouldn't--you always thought me bad, so why should I give the lie to your estimate of my character by proving myself good?--come, choose--the letter, or the exposure!" Patience looked at him in despair, as she knew by her fatal admission she was in his power--so, with a sudden gesture of anger, she held the letter out to him. "Take it." Beaumont laughed softly, and took the letter daintily between his thumb and forefinger. "I thought you'd have known," he said sneeringly. "Now get me a light." "To do what?" "Melt the wax--I want to see what's inside this envelope." "But you mustn't do that--it's sealed with the Garsworth Arms--the lawyers won't pay the cheque if they find the seal has been tampered with." "I can re-seal it with the Garsworth Arms," he replied coolly, "don't be alarmed. I know what I'm about." She looked at him irresolutely, then apparently recognizing the futility of resistance, she lighted a candle and brought it to him. With a dexterity only acquired by long practice Mr. Beaumont deftly melted the wax of the seal and speedily opened the letter. First he took out the short note, written by the Squire, which he read aloud to Patience, the contents being as follows: "_I give you this money to help you in your life. When I am born again in another body, and come to you for help or friendship, you must help me, if I ask, on my reminding you of this money I now give you--for no one but ourselves will know of this transaction, so you can be certain that he who speaks to you of it will be myself in a new body_. "Randal Garsworth." "As mad as ever, I see," said Beaumont, with a sneer, putting down the note. "Now for the cheque." He glanced at it quickly--saw that it was for one hundred pounds, payable to Reginald Blake, and dated the thirtieth of the month--whereupon he gave a low whistle. "What's the matter?" asked Patience, quickly. "To-day, I believe, is the fourteenth?" "Yes--I know what you're going to say--the cheque is dated the thirtieth--I understand that." "Yes, and you, doubtless, understand that the Squire died on the twelfth, and that this cheque is waste paper?" "Waste paper?" "Exactly--it's dated after the Squire's death, so to all intents and purposes, the Squire was not legally in existence when he signed it." "What nonsense!" she said impatiently. "I saw him sign it myself."